


The Unobtainable Blissfulness of Mankind

by houohken



Category: Devilman
Genre: Crossdressing, Feminization, Humiliation, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-27
Updated: 2016-04-26
Packaged: 2018-06-04 18:29:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6669571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/houohken/pseuds/houohken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While any onlooker or peer would see Ryo as something to aspire to, Ryo, himself, saw himself as nothing but a series of disgusting mistakes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Unobtainable Blissfulness of Mankind

**Author's Note:**

> the reason it's listed as underage is because anyone who knows the characters knows they're in high school, i don't really know their exact ages but i think akira is 17 and ryo is 18 in canon but that's when the events of devilman take place, and this is clearly set way before that
> 
> because it would require an omniscient narrator, which i usually don't like writing, i'm gonna say right now that ryo's "dysphoria" is entirely based on the idea that his actual body has both breasts and a dick, which is a big part of where his desire to be more feminine comes from in this fic--*he's not trans*. because of this, i'm not tagging it with dysphoria, since what he's feeling isn't even real and i also don't wanna give people the wrong impression about this fic. i feel like this would be obvious for those who've read devilman, but i'm gonna say it more clearly just to make it easier to understand for anyone who's feeling left in the dark. this isn't essential information for anyone to enjoy the fic, but it's a little easter egg, i guess, for people who wanna know What's Actually Going On
> 
> also, a lot of their relationship history (since there is none in the vanilla devilman manga) is going off of The Canon In The English Dub For The OVAs which i'm sure everyone loves, where akira mentions that ryo's been his best friend for years. a lot of ryo's memories, in the fic, are meant to be hinted that they're being fabricated, since they're unclear, especially in the beginning. a lot went into a fanfic about a dude wanting to dress up like a chick.
> 
> also also, this was going to be one big long thing, but i decided after a bit of thinking that it'd be best for the reader and for myself if it was two separate chapters. chapter 2 should be up in about two weeks after this has gone up, and with chapter 2 going up, i'm gonna be adding more tags for the fic since idk what all they're gonna do when they smex >////

Ryo never brought it up, because he didn’t want to needlessly worry his friend, but bullying was becoming a bit of a problem for him. Or, rather, it was developing a bit of a problem for him.

He hadn’t known how long the bullying had gone on, when it had started, but it had definitely picked up momentum around the time he‘d met Akira, who, ironically, was the brightest light in Ryo‘s life. He’d been going to Akira’s school for around two years, so the bullying had been especially worse since having switched. Ryo wasn’t really surprised, seeing as how so many delinquents attended the school in the first place, and especially so seeing as how so many would pick on other students for the most trivial of things. Some students were mocked simply for being in the same space as the opposite sex--one boy was even teased for having bangs that covered his eyebrows. These people were the embodiment of the term “petty”.

Ryo’s appearance was one of contention, it seemed, and even girls would be jealous of him for his natural femininity--this, of course, made him stand out. He’d never had a problem with appearing less masculine, because Ryo was a very unique young man, and maintaining an unconventional appearance was something that came naturally to him. He was aware of his long lashes, he was aware of his pale skin, his slender limbs, and his longer nails, and he was aware of what this meant. He’d taken a sort of pride in looking like this, and it was an entitlement that Ryo had never stated aloud, but he knew had existed in his subconscious. There was something fulfilling about the way girls would glare at him for being prettier than them, a sense of validation that Ryo wouldn’t know about until certain thoughts began creeping up on him. Regardless, he couldn’t necessarily help the body and face God had given him.

Being different in any sort was practically asking one for all sorts of negative attention, especially as a teenager, and while Ryo was aware of this, Ryo also thought he could handle it. He thought the unspoken satisfaction he got from such a thing would outweigh everything else that came along with it, and boy, was he wrong. Everyone had a breaking point, and Ryo assumed that he simply didn’t, since this sort of thing had been going on (supposedly) for years.

Not much was different now than it had been in the beginning, retrospectively speaking. He’d been called a fairy, he’d been teased for his complexion, and, more often than not, his gender had been blatantly mistaken. Despite Ryo’s sexuality, the slurs and abuse directed towards him for such things didn’t necessarily sting him in the way they should have. Ryo had known since he was younger that girls made him uncomfortable, and as he’d grown into himself and been an onlooker to other boys doing the same, he realized where that discomfort had stemmed from. The fact that Ryo would rather find intimacy with other boys was one that he’d, surprisingly, accepted--him accepting this fact didn’t stop him from degrading and demeaning himself, and insisting he could change it, and insisting certain someones would hate him indefinitely, should they find out. The harmful words on this front were coming from within his own mind, meaning that the degenerates outside his perspective could do nothing to worsen it, or change it.

“Ryo,” his friend would speak up, concern evident in his tone. “Why do you let those nasty guys say that sort of stuff about you?”

Ryo would just shrug, and give Akira a knowing smile--this smile could have meant anything, but Ryo was impossibly hard to read, given his inapproachability and mood swings, and he’d liked to keep it that way.

“Well--doesn’t it bother you? Being called those things--but I guess you’re handling it better than I would. I get flustered at any kind of teasing! I wish I could be more cool-headed like you, Ryo.”

Akira would always praise Ryo, and give the impression that Ryo’s personality and demeanor was everything that Akira had aspired to be. Akira didn’t know how much Ryo wished he could be someone else, and he’d never tell him.

Ryo had first noticed the effect boys had on him when he was about twelve, maybe thirteen, when he’d become aware of such things. Seeing other boys stretch and bend down in the locker rooms before and after gym class had him staring, and having boys playfully touch him between classes made his heart flutter. He gripped his sheets and shouted into his pillow in agony the very first night, when he knew what this had meant.

It may have seemed to be a bit contradictory of Ryo for him to feel this way about himself, since he was a rather aloof and, needless to say, pompous person in the first place, sans his insecurities regarding his sexual identity. Ryo, himself, may have had a hard time discerning why, exactly, he felt so terrible about such a thing, since social norms and graces weren‘t exactly something he deemed a priority; Ryo truly danced to the beat of his own drum. The first reason that came to his mind was certainly regarding Akira, whom he’d considered a true angel, whom had commandeered nearly all of Ryo’s compassion and respect--yes, Akira, the single most important person in his life, far more so than his father, and especially so compared to his mother, whom Ryo had borne an unrealized disdain towards for unrealized reasons.

Akira was perfect to Ryo: untainted, righteous, and brimming with beauty from the sound of his voice to the unique expressions on his face--that beautiful boy that made Ryo hate himself so terribly. Ryo would smile so fondly when Akira would look befuddled by something Ryo had said, or gaze at him dreamily when Akira would sing his melodic laugh at something genuine. Ryo had certainly loved Akira, more than anything else he could imagine, and it was this love that Ryo would keep to himself until the day he died. It was this love that tore Ryo apart from the inside-out, like a disease.

Ryo was diseased.

Akira knowing such a thing about Ryo would ruin their friendship, Ryo believed this to be indubitably true. It was with shame and regret that Ryo carried, rather than a feeling of having been blessed with Akira playing such a pivotal role in his life, having been blessed with what was supposedly the most beautiful emotion one could have during their life. Love was supposed to be a truly wonderful thing, but this love that Ryo bore, this adoration, infatuation, and loyalty that lay deep in his heart, was what Ryo had hated more than anything. His love for Akira, and his hatred of his love, were the two things Ryo had felt most passionate about.

Ryo had never known such pain. It completely consumed him, and became the thing he thought about the most--it was an unending cycle of euphoria and despair.

Ryo didn’t want this, and he’d give anything to be like everyone else, just this once. He’d wished he wasn’t a faggot, and he’d wished he didn’t love Akira as much as he’d had.

Akira seemed air-headed at times, like he had a slow start at getting common concepts, and Ryo, admittedly (although with some force, as Ryo was stubborn regarding his own capabilities), couldn’t read his mind and determine how, exactly, Akira felt about such taboo things such as homosexuality, considering that Ryo had never asked him, and probably never would. Even considering the contradicting suppositions, that Akira was a compassionate soul and was one that understood Ryo the best out of anyone else, Ryo couldn’t help but convince himself that the only possible outcome, should Akira learn his secret, could be negative, and as negative as could be. This was simply the safest, even if, practically speaking, it wasn’t the smartest way to go about things.

This was the only way to ensure Ryo’s happiness, which is something he couldn’t even have in the first place.

Akira undoubtedly acted a certain way towards Ryo that he didn’t towards Miki, or his other male classmates, which was to be expected, seeing as how the two of them were best friends. Akira would give Ryo a different sort of smile when they were alone, he would blush excitedly when Ryo invited him over to spend the night, and when Akira began taking care of those rabbits in the hutch after school, Ryo was the first to know about it. Sometimes, when showing Ryo things he’d never had the chance to show anyone else, he’d sidle close to Ryo, and give him a modest, almost imploring expression, as if he were asking if Ryo was interested in what he was showing him--or, rather, if this lack of distance was okay. Ryo, again, chalked this up to them simply being such good friends, his own disapproval with himself projecting onto Akira, and chalking up the rare instances where their fingers would brush against one another by chance, and Akira’s face lighting up with a faint pinkness of the cheeks and a stutter, merely a coincidence, and his own delusions.

It couldn’t have possibly been anything else.

Perhaps it was, indeed, Ryo’s own fixation on what was wrong with him that prevented him from seeing any of the positives regarding the situation, but even outside of this internalized conflict of his, he naturally had a hard time understanding the emotions of other people, and, much to his dismay, Akira fell into that category. No matter how much he knew Akira, no matter how much time he spent with him, and no matter how much Akira had opened up to Ryo, confided in him, and been his honest self, Ryo could only see his emotions in a textbook fashion. He had no idea what these emotions meant, or how they affected Akira, or why certain actions brought that heavenly smile, and why others snuffed it out like a candle. This lack of basic empathy was one that only affected Ryo when it came to Akira’s involvement, and while it explained why he couldn’t predict Akira’s potential for accepting him and his love, Ryo despaired further at knowing there would always be a barrier between the two of them.

“Ryo,” his friend spoke up softly. They were sitting rather close, uncomfortably so, from a certain perspective, and they’d enjoyed, what Ryo had considered to be, a lovely silence between the two of them. “You seem so reserved all the time. D-don’t take this the wrong way, but sometimes, I feel like I don’t really know you as well as I should. Actually, I feel like I don’t really know very much about you at all! That’s kinda weird, since I still see you as my best friend.”

Ryo’s heart sank.

“Just--you can tell me anything, okay?” Except that he couldn’t.

Should there have been a proper chance at mutual love, Ryo would have ignored the barrier, and had Akira in the fullest way he practically could, but for the time being, Ryo wracked his mind with anguish at his circumstances. Not only was he a disgusting queer, but emotions, themselves, seemed so foreign and alien to him. Why? Had he always been like this--?

Regardless of how stripped of intimate knowledge Ryo had ultimately been, Akira was a delicate boy. He was an angel, and Ryo was a monster for wanting to darken and soil him with such unholy, disgusting desires. Not a moment went by where Ryo didn’t feel such overwhelming guilt for touching himself at night to fantasies of Akira beneath him, sweating, and his name being moaned from those sweet, pink lips. When his mind was particularly active, Ryo had hoped with all his might that Akira couldn’t read his thoughts--the part of him that wished he could, wished that Akira could see the carnal urges Ryo had, could see the depraved things Ryo so desperately prayed he could do to him, and seeing him flabbergast and turn the deepest shade of red at the realization that only Akira could reduce Ryo to such a state, only further solidified Ryo’s humiliation.

Ryo would often cry from how much his heart ached, as embarrassing as such a statement had been. He’d cry, knowing that Akira could never know, and he’d cry, knowing how disgusting he was, and that he continued to feed into it. As fulfilling and erotic his daydreams about Akira were, he’d often considered getting castrated from the guilt he felt for masturbating to his best friend, another boy. More than once, Ryo had tried to cause pain to his nethers, to stop himself from feeling so aroused--he didn’t mutilate himself, but he’d wished that he could. He’d wished he’d had the courage.

Ryo was an ugly, filthy coward.

Aside from Akira and himself, it didn’t matter to Ryo what others thought of his indignity. When bullies threw slurs at him, they simply brushed over Ryo’s shoulder, and he wouldn’t even validate them with a glance. Nothing they could say to Ryo, or about Ryo, could possibly bother him--especially since they’d never truly know that everything they said was right. The words were ones he’d tell himself every night, and it didn’t matter if they were being validated by outside influences, because those outside influences, themselves, did not matter.

What did bother Ryo, however, bothered him far more than it reasonably should have, as if Ryo‘s mental stability and sense of reason were prominent characteristics he‘d had. Ryo, again, was relatively confident with himself, even in regards to him wishing death upon himself for something as despicable as loving other boys--outside of that, he was a bit of an ass. When he was asked if he’d wanted to be a girl instead of a man, though, those words would cling to his mind like a parasite. When he was berated for looking like a girl, sounding like a girl, and acting like a girl whenever Akira was around, no matter how little truth there was to these accusations, Ryo’s mind would stop for a split second, and his heart would begin racing. At first, he didn’t address it, for one reason or another, and when it had brought itself up to him, he didn’t understand why he was having this response.

He didn’t really try to intentionally look like a girl, despite him doing nothing to really try to look more like a man. His hair was of an average length, not much longer than Akira’s, but Ryo could remember the moment he was consciously aware of an irrational fear of makeup. Ryo already didn’t like being around Miki, if not for previously stated reasons, then for the fact that her personality was atrocious, but when the three of them would be in the city together, Ryo was aware of his hesitance when prompted to enter particular feminine stores--clothing being something understandable, but makeup being an entirely different sort of issue. It was as if he was insecure, which Ryo certainly was not (self-hating, he was, but Ryo insisted that he was on top of it, saying this to himself even as he‘d been in tears and begging his accursed erection to stop taunting him), but if he had been insecure, it wouldn’t have been with his masculinity--or would it?

“Ryo!,” his friend called out excitedly. “Miki wants us to head back to her place when we’re done--s-she wants me to try on some of her makeup.” A great blush was evident on his face, and there was anxiety in his eyes.

“Why?”

“I dunno! Girls are just weird like that, you know? But who knows, maybe it’d be fun! If no one at school finds--”

“Don’t let her do something stupid like that. You’re not a little kid; guys don’t wear makeup.”

He’d spent so long ignoring the bullying, occasionally retaliating if he knew he wouldn’t be caught or punished, but after several months, his mind began lingering more and more on what they were saying regarding his supposed womanhood, and this began to manifest himself into cognizant worries--worries he could actually, physically, legitimately point out and address, and Ryo didn’t like this. Ryo didn’t believe himself to be a transsexual, and when his dangerously wandering thoughts had led him to even consider such a thing, he knew that this was becoming nothing short of a complex, and one that had brought itself into existence so suddenly, and seemingly randomly.

Ryo was scared of being a woman. Scared, and dangerously tempted by it. Was it because being a woman made it safer to enjoy the company of men? Did being a woman make it okay?

Ryo had no generalized or specific dysphoria--not that he would have known what it was, unless he’d had it. To a degree, however, on slight occasions, he’d feel as though there were two weights on his chest, and his posture would be a little screwed, or laying on his back would make his breathing more labored--but these were merely ghost-pains, illusions, nothing tangible. Once, he supposed there was meant to be something more to his chest and his physique, and that he was simply born without, as though God had made a--he’d swallowed upon the suggestion, his blood turning cold-- _mistake_ while he was developing in the womb. Ryo wouldn’t allow himself to ponder further as to what this illusory sensation was, because he didn’t need another reason to keep himself up at night with misery.

Thankfully, he’d never dreamt that he was a full woman, or at least, from the dreams that were clear and deep enough for him to remember. Still, he’d dreamt that he had the upper body of a woman, and the lower body that of a man, and that was equally as frightening. Regardless, this convinced him that he didn’t exactly want to _be_ a woman, per say. It cleared his greatest suspicion, but only further complicated matters.

Of course, he’d deny this, much like he denied the bullying when asked, much like he’d denied himself his love for a certain boy, and much like he’d denied how much he loved the vibrant shade of red on his own lips, once he’d let these invasive thoughts catch up to him and let him fall even further from grace, once he‘d finally given in to his desires, and even further from what had been expected of him when he was born into this world as a boy. The bullying planted the seed, and his faults and failures and depraved wrongness as a human being allowed the seed to grow and consume his being.

Secrets were something Ryo kept well, and even though the closest person to him was Akira, there was much that Akira didn’t know about him. Akira never knew of Ryo’s mother, and he also never knew of Ryo’s apprehensiveness when she was brought to question. Akira even seemed oblivious to Ryo’s similar apprehensiveness whenever Miki’s mother would be doting towards him in the way most competent mothers should. Ryo was a quiet, introverted boy, but this was only enhanced when he’d be invited over for dinner at Miki’s place; while Akira didn’t know of Ryo’s mother, he did know he was alone a lot of the time, so Ryo knew that Akira extending these invitations was out of concern for his friend. Akira never seemed aware of the glares Ryo would give the women around the table, or even when Ryo would shirk away from Mrs. Makimura’s motherly touch.

These were habits he’d displayed even before he began doubting his gender. Once he’d known where his loyalty and desired lied, he figured this was just association with his disinterest in sex with women; however, if he’d thought back far enough, he’d know that he considered his own mother to be of the same category and caliber as Mrs. Makimura and her daughter--disgusting annoyances that merely got in his way. Ryo had certainly known a mother’s love, but there was always that layer of disdain, and of jealousy, that overlaid what warmth he could have had regarding her. These feelings would flare up especially, and unreasonably, when any woman in particular was engaging Akira, and, had he given into his urges, he would have certainly hurt Miki or her mother for so much as looking at him.

Would Ryo continue to hate himself even if he did have breasts, and even if the place between his legs was different? If he spoke in a womanly tone, and had long, flowing hair, and became the exact thing he was starting to crave, would he continue to hate himself? Was there no hope for him to be happy?

Eventually, the clearest question regarding his identity had presented itself to Ryo, and upon the realization that his subconscious was asking this of him, he’d spiraled even further down the rabbit hole, and deeper into hell. Curiosity killed the cat, and Ryo was ever so curious when he’d wondered what he’d look like if he were a woman--if he‘d been born a woman.

It began with something as simple as makeup, his lashes one day seeming much darker and longer, his eyebrows seeming more filled and shaped, his lips seeming just a bit plumper. He began to be less and less hesitant when it came to entering stores marketed towards girls, so that he could study and get the things he needed to “fix“ his appearance, and he found himself looking at said girls in his classes more often than he used to--not out of lust, but out of the same envy they’d had for him, out of the need to look more like them. As he had once been above all the rest, and seen himself on an untouchable pedestal, he began seeing himself below girls, and wishing he’d had what they had, and doing his best to obtain it.

He wouldn’t let himself go as low as to calling them “real” girls, no matter how despicable and detached he became. That would imply he wanted something more, something he couldn’t have, something that was far worse than just imitating what he desired--and something his dreams told him wasn’t true.

Ryo had enough sense to not wear anything like that out in public, obviously, the only exception being mascara, since his eyelashes were naturally long and people thought he wore it anyway--black mascara was chancing it, but brown mascara simply made him look more awake. The first night he wore lipstick in the safety of his own room, his father away on another dig, he almost threw up with angst and fear, his stomach knotting and growing colder and colder the more he‘d realized what he‘d done. However, after he’d applied it, and then wiped it off to apply it more accurately because Asuka Ryo didn‘t settle for less than perfection, it took him a bit to leave the bathroom and step away from the mirror. He’d stroked the face in the reflection, and then his own, his eyes never leaving the bright red paint. His lips were so big, so luscious, so delicious, and he knew that had he worn something on his eyes to balance out his intense mouth, he would have certainly looked like a woman. A “real” woman.

He could take photos like this, and people would see them, and ask who the beautiful woman was. Who “she” was.

He hurriedly washed his mouth to remove any traces of the lipstick and rushed out of the bathroom. He didn’t touch any other makeup products for a week, and he went to bed aroused.

Once he’d become comfortable with wearing makeup, however, he began to yearn for more, and, gradually, his restlessness and anxiety began to fade away, although there was a (reasonable, according to Ryo) degree of self-loathing that he felt would never leave. After all, he was beginning to abandon his manhood, which he‘d already sacrificed by touching himself to thoughts and images of other boys, but now he was just falling further and further from the ideal. At first, it was just once a week, usually towards the end, where he’d spend some time in the bathroom at night, looking at himself in the mirror, staring at the bizarre amalgam of man and woman. As his obsession with womanliness grew, as did his obsession with his features that he could accentuate in order to appear more feminine, so that he could become closer and closer to that which was impossible to obtain, and become more likely to accept his faults as a human.

What had become a weekly occurrence gradually become a frequent ordeal throughout the rest of the house, especially when his father was away. He’d spend a good deal of time sitting in his washroom, staring at what he saw being reflected back to him, and, rather than washing it all off before he’d leave, he’d drift off into his bedroom, or even the living room. That, especially, had been quite the thrill, given that his father could have come home at any chance, and seen something hermaphroditic in the house, replacing his good, honest boy. When he was in his bedroom, he’d be laying on his bed, occasionally stroking himself at the thought of being mistaken--genuinely, sincerely mistaken for a girl, being spoken of as the other gender.

He’d spill into his hand when he imagined Akira asking him to be his girlfriend.

His attraction for Akira was something he’d accepted shortly after the feelings began to bud in his heart, and said attraction for Akira was often the reason that Ryo would demean himself for his interests and his personality. While recently, he’d been comparing himself to women and striving to become such, Ryo had always compared himself to Akira--would Akira like if he did this? Would Akira hate if he knew that? Most of Ryo’s actions were judged by the Akira in his mind, as Akira was on an even higher pedestal than he’d once deemed himself, and in his mind, Akira’s judgments were harsh, and unwavering. Ryo knew that, with certainty, his love for the other boy would shatter their friendship, and Ryo was tainted by this unshakeable desire to kiss this boy, to hold his hands, and for this boy to view no other.

Something so harmful was so deeply ingrained in Ryo’s soul, and that was what made it so particularly detestable and disgusting. His desire to look like a woman made him even more detestable and disgusting, and as Ryo lay in bed at night, wearing his makeup and caressing his member, his heart was heavy with guilt and pain.

This was wrong. This was terribly, truly wrong, and Ryo didn’t see himself stopping any time soon.

As these feelings and thoughts matured, and were given the opportunity to develop and be explored, rather than repressed and shunned, Ryo found quite a deal of relief in knowing that his identity, itself, wasn’t being threatened. The best experiences with masturbating, that he’d found, had been while he was wearing his makeup, and while he was imagining Akira seeing him as a woman--this, along with the gradual association with arousal that the thought of being more womanly gave him, lent to the realization that this was becoming a fetish, reevaluating what his dreams had already confirmed. These thoughts had been too frightening, new, and worrisome for him to actually dissect in the beginning, but as they’d had time to flourish, these new means with which to express and relieve himself had opened up a new world to Ryo, and while he was ever-conscious of how this impacted him, and how it completely went against his purpose in having been born a man, he was becoming more and more confident in himself.

Ryo was already pompous, but actual confidence, especially in regards to something like this, was definitely something that had been missing in his life.

“You seem a lot happier lately,” Akira had commented on their walk home from school--Akira had invited him over, with less subtle tenseness as he would have otherwise, explaining that the Makimuras had left town to visit some relatives, and allowed him to stay behind to look after the place. Akira commented innocently on how they seemed to treat him more like a live-in nanny, rather than part of their family, but he didn’t seem to particularly mind their rudeness. Ryo had seemed to falter for a bit at the invitation, wanting to say yes, but instead, after some brief deliberation, turned the offer around to have Akira come to his place instead.

“Have I?,” Ryo turned to look at him, with a more honest smile. Feeling more confident had helped him feel more empathetic, and less at a loss for words, so he was able to pick up the way Akira’s face lit up at finally being able to judge his friend, and Ryo, for once, was able to discern why these feelings had occurred.

“Yeah! You seem a lot easier to talk to now, too, did something happen? Did those guys stop picking on you?”

Akira’s inability to notice such things made it easier for Ryo to begin to feed into his own curiosity, confusion, and shameful desires regarding his formerly-concrete gender in a safe and unsuspecting environment. Granted, there was always the chance that Akira would eventually realize and become aware--and Ryo was certainly taking that risk by inviting him over on the spur of the moment--but Ryo was anything, if not secretive. The emotional barrier was beginning to drop, but that didn’t mean Ryo’s entire life was laid bare for Akira to see, and pick apart, and kick into the dirt.

In the event that Akira _did_ find makeup products in Ryo’s washroom, which he wouldn’t, unless Ryo had purposely left them out with the intention of Akira finding them and hating Ryo for the rest of his life, Ryo had the clever excuse of them belonging to a new woman his father was seeing. As for why they were in _Ryo’s_ washroom, and not his father’s, well, Ryo could come up with an excuse if he’d needed to, not that he was expecting Akira to look so deeply into it. Ryo was simply being paranoid.

One thing that Ryo did fear, however, was a new interest that Ryo had taken with his appearance that Akira had more of a chance of finding. It had taken him quite a bit of nerve to experiment, and to grow comfortable with it, much like with the makeup, but once he’d tried it out for the first time, he hadn’t been able to part without it. Leaving the house with his face painted, even subtly, was asking for ridicule and shame, but wearing something underneath, something that the general public had no way of knowing, filled Ryo with a sense of exhibitionism that wearing makeup in the living room had given him.

Part of his new-found confidence could very easily have been attributed to this expression. It certainly made Ryo happier, even if his stomach twisted and turned cold every other moment at the prospect of someone somehow knowing, but, like the makeup, the more he did it, the easier it became to bear, and he was soon getting similar sexual gratification that the possibility of being found with the makeup gave him.

It was certainly risky, inviting Akira over, but his friend would only be there for a few hours. They’d entertain themselves with manga, or board games, or simply by talking, and in that limited time frame, it was very unlikely that Akira would realize Ryo was wearing lingerie under his clothes.

“Hey, uhm, I don’t want to overstay my welcome, but, could I ask something?”

Ryo looked at him with the same smile he’d given him earlier in their walk.

“Could I spend the night? It’s been forever since we last did that, it’d be fun!”

That familiar coldness started in his stomach, and soon spread to the rest of his body. Ryo broke out into a cold sweat, and nausea overpowered his senses, Akira terrified and asking what was wrong. They’d had to stop for a bit while Ryo threw up in a public restroom.


End file.
